Wednesday, 29 August 2012

Today, I put on this eclectic, vintage ball-gown and flew in a Cessna across the sea to the Isle of Harris, within the Outer Hebrides.

My first port of call was this wild beach, called Seilebost. It looks like the Caribbean. White sand that squeaks when you walk on it. Wow-factor views of purple mountains. Pods of dolphins jumping just offshore.

Do you like the dining room of the hotel I'm staying at?

I've also received more poison spat from the forked tongue of Lady Vagina, this time accusing me of being a charlatan. Interestingly, she claims to have been a 90s glamour model. What piffle!

Sour and pointless, the only claim to fame Lady V has is that the term bridezilla (a British colloquial term for a fat, moody, difficult bride) was coined after she appeared on national TV.

Here is a recent picture of Lady Vagina, so you can make up your own mind:

Tuesday, 28 August 2012

Over the weekend, I've received some poisonous comments from Lady Vagina, Ambrosia Strangelove etc, all internet personas operated by the same person; as I believe in freedom of speech, I'm allowing the comments to remain on the blog for perpetuity.I shall now formally respond to these comments.

Dear Lady Vagina ((also known as Ambrosia Strangelove)). I am launching a new fragrance this week, one of the most eagerly anticipated fragrances to hit the market. As I think the fragrance would suit your embittered, toxic personality, I am sending you a large consignment in the post. The fragrance - Eau de Jalousie - is presented in a green bottle of antique French crystal, the scent is an unforgettable fantasia of je ne sais pas quoi. The parfum was designed with you in mind; it is equal to the sum of all your parts.Here it is:

Saturday, 18 August 2012

After all the hard work involved in the filming of The Hampstead Heath Chainsaw Massacre, a break was much needed. This morning, just after a foie gras breakfast, my private helicopter - a Sikorsky X2 - landed on the lawn and whisked me over 600 miles up to the very northwest coast of Scotland.

I'm now on vacation for the next few weeks, enjoying the stunning white sands of Sanna Bay. It's a bay on the Ardnamurchan peninsula, the most westerly part of the British mainland, and quite literally,
the end of the road. Today, I enjoyed swimming in crystal-clear ocean, exploring rockpools, and then a light lunch of mussels and a snooze in a deckchair. The weather is roasting too! Long may it continue.

Monday, 13 August 2012

Filming of my new movie, The Hampstead Heath Chainsaw Massacre, is now over. The film is released in cinemas on Wednesday 31 October - Halloween 2012.

Here are the promotional posters that are going up all over the country:

And another poster, just back from the designer - a more grungy feel:

A bespoke chainsaw made from 18-carat gold was made especially for the film, with my name engraved on its blade. It weighed a lot. I had to do a lot of shots wielding the buzzing chainsaw above my head and bringing it down. Consequently, I now have much larger biceps than I did before.

The filming took 12 weeks and was shot at this quiet spot in the depths of Hampstead Heath, a large, wooded heathland in North London:

In case, you hadn't guessed, the film is a graphic horror.

The soundtrack is by an experimental Austrian composer and is truly bloodcurdling. The movie has a budget of over £200 million.

A splendid time was had by all attending my Summer Fête on Saturday: at one point, guests were swinging from the chandelier in the main Hall, as shown above.

A short preview of my upcoming film was broadcast on a 40 metre-long cinema screen erected in the grounds, details of which I will be announcing via this blog shortly.

In the meantime, I've been going through the Gift Tent with Juan, to see what my guests left as a present to me. Gifting was compulsory. My guest wishlist had previously been posted on my website: antiques, fine wines, classic cars and also an extensive entertainment wishlist from Amazon.

Some of the presents were very nice, including a Ming vase; an Ormolu clock left by a Scottish baroness; various bits of artwork; however, some of the presents have left me with a taste of bile in my mouth:

When I published my extensive wishlist of Amazon.com music products , I never expected to be left this disgusting object. Apparently, a pufferfish from Brazil, it's been lovingly stuffed and was left on a silver platter in the Gift Tent. What should I do with it? Maybe I should attach a chain to it and wear it as an earring?

A case full of dentures? An outrageous and obscene donation. The person who left this should be flogged at dawn.

And a Greek Drachma note, completely worthless when Greece replaced it with the Euro currency in 1992. (And look where that got them.)

This is apparently a Hoover vacuum cleaner from the 1970s. Never used one or even seen this type of appliance. Wasn't on my Gift Wishlist so it's been thrown into the lake. Quite why anyone would leave such an item as a gift is beyond me. I can honestly say two things: I've never used a vacuum cleaner in my life. I've also never gotten on a bus before. I don't even know what one is.

This is a hedgehog hairbrush. Imitation, of course, but I still find it revolting as I love hedgehogs. Hedgehogs were not put on this earth to be made stiff and glued to a handle and spend the rest of their days combing people's hair!

The good news, however, is that everyone attending the event was asked to dig deeply for my collection of chosen charities, several HIV/AIDS organisations. At the end of the event, we collected over £38,000 which will all go to great causes.

Saturday, 4 August 2012

I've always been a fan of high-tech couture. A London-based atelier has sent me a gorgeous, silk-chiffon outfit called an Aurora LED dress, which I'm wearing tonight, just after darkness falls for maximum effect.

Studded with hundreds of Swarovski crystals and over 10,000 embroidered LEDs, the dress is sure to wow the assembled entourage of over 500.

The overall effect brings to mind the Aurora Borealis phenomenon, or Northern Lights; Aurora was the Roman goddess of dawn, who took flight each morning to herald the arrival of the sun. The only snag is that the LEDs on the dress are powered by mains electricity, so I must always ensure no-one trips on the flex and pulls the plug out of the mains, and that there isn't a power cut (which is highly likely in this rural part of Buckinghamshire).

The proverb "the Devil is in the Detail" is my favourite. In high social circles, one can be harshly judged on small, precise, trifling details. So much so, I've taken a keen interest in the arrangements for today's VIP Summer Fête on the lawns of my country estate, Raffles, casting my eye even on the smallest decisions, such as which brand of silverware to lay out ("Christofle, of course, darling"), which wines to serve ("Châteauneuf-du-Pape is for French peasants. Bring on the 2002 Romanee-Conti[priced at a mere £12,250 per bottle], buy the whole wine cellar if you have to, you passive, bitchy, old fem").

Much to my horror, I'd discovered early on that Cook had been abusing the liquour cabinet, literally drinking my cellar dry of gin. How did I know? She started wearing the following garment.

And her reading material was a clear sign of her unbalanced mind:

She's not been the same since her trip to the Far East. She spent three weeks on a secluded island in Thailand before flying to Vietnam and then mainland China. It seems to have turned her mind. For example, she'd been planning to serve up a decidedly experimental hors d'oeuvre:

It's called Century Egg. A Chinese duck or quail egg, preserved in a mixture of clay, ash, salt, lime and rice straw for several months, until the yolk becomes a dark green, gelatinous form with an odour of sulphur and ammonia.

Revolting. Something no doubt the French would adore.

She should have added
pig trotters, blood soup, warm scorpion mousse, roasted bat and deep-fried locust, whilst
she was at it with her deviant ideas.

Had she been allowed to serve Century Egg or any of the other abominations, my guests would have prayed for merciful death and my reputation for being the hostess with the mostest would have been in tatters.

She also spent a small fortune
ordering in a gigantic ostrich egg so big it needed a tractor to transport
it. Quite what she planned to do with it is beyond me, clearly she was planning to feed the whole of the Home Counties with it. It took three men to move it. It's been rolled out of the front gate and is now sitting on the village green.

Even with known and celebrated British menus, she's been known to corrupt the most fool-proof recipes and serve up a dish bearing no resemblance whatsoever to its origin. Once she flew off the handle and served what she called "a little Surprise pudding". It was a plum pudding so tall and wide it required eight people to carry it in. She'd gone for the alternative interpretation and added onions, garlic, tuna and artichokes, and then she'd laced it with every conceivable liquor available, not just stopping at rum, but also tequila, sambuca and absinthe.

As a last considerate thought, she placed a couple of lit fireworks on the table beside it, just as she ignited the pudding.

Damage caused to my banquet hall after Cook's diabolical Surprise Christmas Pudding, laced with enough alcohol to sink the Titanic and served with several lit fireworks. The whole thing exploded like a bomb going off, showering the Hall with millions of bits of molten suet and raisin, causing irrevocable structural damage - now you know why I moved to Buckinghamshire shortly afterwards.

Sadly, Cook is now beginning psychiatric treatment at the nearest Secure Unit, and I've almost - thanks to Prozac and Xanax - moved on from her catastrophic culinary perversions. The newly appointed Cook will be serving up classically English Beef Wellington: a square of filet steak coated with pâté de foie gras and duxelles, wrapped in puff pastry and baked, and served with truffles, mushrooms and Madeira wine. And the only fireworks will be later in the evening, and set off outside.I've had to hire new staff, since many of my original employees are still off sick with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder following the Exploding Pudding Incident.

The new staff were handpicked by moi, with a particular theme in mind. As it's a banquet, you might have expected to see very formally-dressed staff, which is common all over the country.

However, I don't follow tradition.

The height of decadence: many high-class eateries and hotels in Britain dress their waiting staff in stiff, very formal costume, as pictured above. This 5-star eatery, in the heart of London's trendy Mayfair, is the hangout of many A-list celebs. Note the 'luxury hand wash' in the top right of this photo.

I'm not interested in the faded glamour of yesteryear waiters and maître d'hôtel; there won't be any tuxedos, bow ties or stiff upper lips. My butlers and waiters will be wearing something simple, understated and unique, something that will be talked about for years to come:

That's right. They'll just be wearing the above garment and nothing else. Some of them don't speak a word of English, but they're not here to engage in conversation. Here are 'the Boys':

Thursday, 2 August 2012

I cannot decide which of the following shoes to wear for this weekend's Summer Fete/Film Celebration at my country estate.

Which do you think? And why?

Option 1: Pink Chopin Shoes. When I was a Playboy Bunnygirl, these were all the rage, I think I once saw a certain international male singer wearing a pair. I occasionally wear these for long walks across London's Hampstead Heath, usually just before dusk when the setting sun sparkles on the rhinestones.

Option 2: Spiker Shoes. Made from African thornbush trees; I often wear these when I'm asked to open museums and libraries, as I feel it helps to create a lasting impression.

Option 3: The Country-Set Shoes: Very stylish brogues, a mere steal at $12,000 per pair. I wear them when swimming.

Option 4: Crystal Black Widow Stilettos - these are my all-time favourite. Have been snapped by the paparazzi strolling along the streets of St Tropez wearing these spiffing high heels, actually made from clear, unbreakable crystal. They give off a clacking sound on the cobbles like a fishwife's tongue clacking disapprovingly, but are so comfortable to wear. The crystal case, forming the cap of the shoe, contains one or two live spiders; there's a little battery-powered device I have in my handbag whilst wearing these and it's only necessary to press it once and a trapdoor in the shoes opens and releases the spiders.

Option 5: These were a gift from an admirer. I'm not really into branded footwear, and I understand that this design has become increasingly popular among young people in Wales, since a certain retailer has been selling them on a Buy One, Get One Free offer. I sharn't be wearing them.

Option 6: African Safari Shoes - often worn when I'm out shopping. Once I got a man in the street to throw down his coat over a puddle so I could pass without getting wet feet. Chivalry is indeed alive in England!

Option 7: My second favourite - these canary-yellow and black creations allow me to be stand above the crowds. As nice as they look, you could also call them 'hop-like-a-frog' shoes, because they're really not comfortable for break-dancing or doing the pogo stick and have been known to cause bunions the size of a golf ball.

Option 8: Chainsaw Shoes - And these plimsolls I was asked to wear when we commence the production of my new film. I'll tell you more about the film later. It's a closely guarded secret.

Option 9: Plastic Dominatrix Boots - I once wore these at a funeral. They are sombre, aren't they?

Option 10: Not forgetting my gorgeous Fish Flip-flops, not so much for grand occasions and high days, than lounging around, I shall probably put them on at some point during the weekend.﻿

Wednesday, 1 August 2012

I'm going on a short bicycle ride around the countryside this afternoon. It's all new to me, since I've only been living here for just under two months. Here is a photograph taken of myself this morning, walking around my country house, Raffles.

I purchased the Raffles Estate from my late, great Uncle Horatio some time ago. It's a 17th century, grey-stoned manor, with an interesting past - it was once owned by Lady Pilkington-Jefferies, an outspoken artist, feared by many for her prickly ginger hair and outlandish dress style. She adored the company of sailors and, legend has it, published many steamy stories of her voyages on the seven seas. It is fitting that we share similiar interests.

Raffles has a walled garden and its own orchards, set on a hill just outside Brill, a farming village in northwest Buckinghamshire.

Here is a view of the surrounding countryside. It's the most idyllic and enchanting place, yet the sinful delights of London are only 50 minutes away by train.

A view across the pastoral landscape of rural Bucks, to a distant farm.

Internally, Raffles is full of grandfather clocks and grand staircases. Most of all, I enjoy the library because it holds historic curios, glass cases full of preserved butterflies (Uncle Horatio was an interpid explorer and went deep into the Amazon with just a pith helmet and machete) and colonial artefacts. On one of the walls is an original print, below, from the Elizabethan era.

I find this picture particularly inspiring because it's exactly the way I like to cycle around the countryside. Yes, that's right, if you're visiting northwest Buckinghamshire, you might glimpse Fanny on a vintage Penny-Farthing, usually just wearing lingerie, or sometimes, less than that! It does help to break the ice when it comes to the rural English stiff upper-lip.

I'm opening up my home to the village over the weekend, for a Summer Fête and also to celebrate the beginning of the production of my new film; here are some photographs of how the house and gardens have been decorated for the celebration.

The newly appointed staff are a damn sight better than the last ones in Wiltshire! Look how well dusted this room is.

Where I do most of my writing in the day.

When I hold a celebration during the summer months, it's the height of decadence to string French, antique chandeliers from the trees; these are hanging everywhere around my garden, and will be perfectly complemented by a brass band I've organised. It should be an unforgettable weekend.

About Me

My name is Fanny Love. Described by the media as "like Alice in Wonderland, on acid",
I'm a Texan-born transvestite, who also happens to be a part-time super model, celebrated authoress and occasional shoplifter. I adore the company of beautiful young men at my isolated country estate in the English countryside. Join me on my unorthodox travels around little England, accompanied by Juan (my pin-up Brazilian chauffeur) and my two adorable dogs, Mr. Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop (a rainbow-dyed poodle) and Brenda (a 3-year old Doberman bitch with an obsession about red stilettos).